What can I possibly write?
eighteen years of your unconditional
(if sarcastic and a bit dry) love
cannot be condensed into words.
For three days after your passing
I wrestled with whether I truly love horses
or I just loved you.
Turns out, I don’t know
but I know I love my sweet SoCo and my wild Daisy, too.
And that’s enough for now.
Writing season is just around the corner,
but who will carry me out of myself
when the words start to pull me under?
No living being on this earth
will ever be so patient with me
as you were.
I used to feel good that I could read your eyes,
that your ears and the set of your mouth
would tell me how you felt.
But in your absence, I keep asking
did I give you even a fraction
of the strength, joy, and peace
you brought to me?
Tristan, I am lost.
And you aren’t here to take us home.